


The Ground Beneath Our Feet

by deathfrisbees



Series: between the sounds of the night [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, M/M, as in a good amount of this will be contained in letters, letter writing, poetic turns of phrase, these boys say they're not romantic but we know better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathfrisbees/pseuds/deathfrisbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of letters and snippets of life, written and lived by John H. Watson and Sherlock Homes during John's time in Afghanistan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. to go away on a summer's day

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted at FF.net under different titles (which I'll get around to changing over there eventually). This chapter is a bit short, but I'm sure I'll eventually make up for it. Also, all of my knowledge of the RAMC comes from Google and Wikipedia, so if I get something wrong, please correct me. 
> 
> Thank you all for all the comments and kudos on Gentlemen of Cambridge! Any other comments/protests/concerns are welcome.

When Sherlock Holmes moves into 221B Baker Street approximately two and a half weeks after the wretched party he attended two nights before his graduation from Cambridge, there is a letter waiting for him.

Mrs. Hudson, the smiling older woman he was renting the flat from (at a truly exorbitant price, he'd never admit this aloud but thank God the Holmes family was rich), gave him the tour once more, explained to him that she was "Not your housekeeper, dearie, I may drop off biscuits now and then but that'll be it!" and went to rummage through her pile of mail.

"Biscuits?" Sherlock remains stuck on that fact, wondering why on earth his landlady would give him biscuits. _Clean flat, no dust on the floor of 221B nor dust on anything in 221A, no teacups in the sink of 221A,but there's one open letter on her table out of an entire pile, sugar on the counter and flour under her fingers: possible stress-baker? Letter may have contained bad news…_

"Yes, biscuits, when you least expect them! Oh, and before I forget, you got a letter," she says, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"From who?"

Mrs. Hudson smiles benignly, her brown eyes sparkling. "It's post-marked from Kabul," she says.

_Kabul. Capital and largest city of Afghanistan, capital of Kabul Province, population of-- **John H. Watson!**_

Face betraying nothing at all, Sherlock takes the letter from her hands with a feigned if not polite smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I appreciate it." He waited until the door of 221B had swung shut, then sat down in the midst of boxes and scattered packing papers to tear open the letter.

* * *

_Dear Sherlock Holmes,_

_Please excuse any odd lines or scrawls, I'm writing this from the vehicle taking us from the airfield to the base and it's not the smoothest ride. Anyways. On with the content._

_I've got a confession to make: I've never done this pen-pal thing before. Well, once, in Year 8, but that was for my German class and it was practicing stuff like "How old are you? Do you play football well?" And it was in German. ("Wie alt bist du? Spielen Sie fu ßball gut?") Big difference here. I feel as though I ought to ask after your family, but I don't exactly know if you've got any (if this is a sensitive topic, I apologize. Trust me, my family isn't the stuff to write home about either. Harry still hasn't spoken to me because she's furious about my enlistment, and Da is ridiculously proud of me. The difference is unnerving.)_

_Anyways. Don't know if you will, but no one back home seems to comprehend that the Army is what paid for med school. None of them want to listen when I say that I'm honestly a bit excited about it, either. Not that I'm anxious to see any of my company get injured, or worse, but there's going to be so much going on that I can't wait to get started._

_We're on our way to the base now, and my impressions of Afghanistan are thus: It's bloody hot, it's bloody dry, and it's really, really bloody bright. I'm quite glad for both my sunglasses and the fact that it's a dry heat. There are a bunch of palm trees, at least where we touched down (We're driving through mostly desert now) and I must admit I was a bit surprised to see them. I probably shouldn't be, it’s the right climate and latitude for them to grow in, but I suppose I associated them with the tropics and vacations and what not. The last time I saw palm trees, I was in Barcelona for the spring hols, so that's most likely where I got that impression from. I'm not all that good with words, but everything seems to be shaded in variations of the same reddish tan. Including our uniforms. And our faces. (though that's because of the sand blowing everywhere.) I suppose you could call it beautiful, but I'm too used to grey and green England._

_You must think I'm a sap because of that last line, but I swear, I'm not the poetic type that sees beauty in everything. (That honor belongs to Seamus, the youngest of our regiment. He brought his own fountain pens. I don't even know how, but he has his own fountain pens and notebook, and keeps looking around and scribbling things down. I think he's 19. He's ginger, and I think he's going to fry like a lobster by the end of tomorrow.)_

_I think I just wasted a lot of paper, and now that I look at this, I think it's mostly filler. Still, it's day 1 of Afghanistan. Perhaps I’ll have more interesting things to write about next time I hear from you-- and about that! If you've changed your mind and would prefer not to be bothered by this drivel, I won't be offended. That said, I look forwards to hearing from you nonetheless._

_Yours, **John Watson**_

* * *

An unconscious smile steals over Sherlock's face before he smothers it. _Not write back? Ridiculous,_ Sherlock thinks, before getting up and setting the letter down on the table.

Write back he would, but the case he would soon be on took precedence.

Cases _always_ took precedence.


	2. I've seen those English dramas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letter number one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small discussion of rape/murder. Maybe I've been affected by Tumblr's rabid "TRIGGER WARNING EVERYTHING" but I figure I ought to warn you guys. It's in Sherlock's letter and it's pretty clinical, but... still. Sorry for the delay, I was in Disney... and real life sort of got in the way.

"Lestrade," Sherlock barks, "Out of your depth once more?"

The officer in question nearly jumps a foot in the air, spinning around faster than Sherlock would have given him credit for, then groaning upon seeing who had spoken. "You're back. I thought I'd seen the last of you a few months ago!"

Sherlock ducks under the yellow crime scene tape, ignoring the protests of the sergeant, whose brown hair had more than a few new streaks of grey in it since the last time they met. Sherlock was a little surprised he could remember the last time they had met, considering he had been high out of his mind at the time. He had bought train tickets from Cambridge to London with Victor, then promptly was separated from Victor (or more accurately, separated Victor from his stash) and took off into the city. An hour later, he was cheerily deducing a murder in front of Sergeant Lestrade while bouncing up and down on his toes over and over again.

"Are you clean?" Lestrade finally demands, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders. Sherlock stops short, quicksilver eyes going wide at the unexpected contact.

"Yes, yes, I'm clean. I'll never recover from the indignity of being pulled out of Uni for a semester, but I'm clean," Sherlock growls. Quicker than he anticipated, Lestrade's hand is in his pocket, drawing out a carton of cigarettes. The older man levels a Look at the sullen recent graduate.

"Smoking is not equivalent to cocaine," the younger quietly grits out. Lestrade snorts, but hands back the carton. "Are you going to let me at the scene now?"

"Yes, fine," Lestrade says, rolling his eyes and stepping aside to let Sherlock through.

"Sir, what about Alistair?" the woman Sherlock knows as Donovan asks, grabbing Lestrade's arm with fuchsia-nailed hands. She eyes Sherlock mistrustfully, as though he'll stand up and go on an evidence-destroying rampage any second.

"DI Alistair is a fool, and your sergeant will most likely take his place within the year," Sherlock interjects, crouching next to the body without looking at either of them. His comment manages to shut Donovan up immediately, while Lestrade lets out a startled laugh. Sherlock stares at the bodies for a few seconds more, cataloguing the way they fell, the various fluids covering them-- a young, reedy man and a heavyset, but still beautiful, woman-- and suddenly, everything seems to click.

"Murder-suicide, but not for the reasons you're thinking. It's simple, really, once you get past your preconceived notions…"

* * *

 "Lieutenant Watson!"

"Sir!" John snaps to attention, startled by the sudden appearance of his captain.

"At ease," William Greville replies, and the younger officer relaxes. "Congratulations, Watson," the captain continues.

"Ah, thank you, sir?" John responds, eyes shifting to the rest of the men in the barracks in his confusion.

"First unofficial mail of the company," he explains, handing John a dusty envelope. "Thought you broke up with your girl?"

The captain raises a dark eyebrow, and John flushes. "No, Sherlock-- Sherlock is just a friend," _if that's even who this letter is from,_ John thinks. Greville nods uncaringly, and walks out, leaving John standing alone with the letter.

"Johnny's got a giiiiiiiiirlfriend!" Bill Murray sing-songs, leaning over John's shoulder and making a grab for the letter.

"A girlfriend with very neat handwriting," Connor Jameson adds, peering at the perfectly-legible John Watson written on the envelope.

Seamus Morstan frowns slightly. "I didn't know Sherlock was a girl's name," he adds.

"It isn't," John finally gets a word in, "Sherlock is my friend, and he is most definitely male." Everyone pauses for a moment, before Tom Robertson, one bunk over, calls, "Johnny's got a booooooooyfriend!" which sets the rest of the men off again. Laughing, John finally yells for them to piss off, and stretches out on his cot, tearing open the envelope with a smile.

* * *

_Dear John Watson,_

_You are an idiot if you thought I'd give up on correspondence so easily. Don't take it personally. Most people are idiots when compared to me. I'm not sure when your original letter arrived, as I only moved in to 221B yesterday, although your uncertainty about my response leads me to believe that I should not expect a response until mine reaches you. I'll be sending this via priority mail, but I don't think even Mycroft can guarantee two-day shipping in a war-zone._

_Mycroft, you may want to note, is my elder brother. He's older than I am by seven years and is a "minor" government official. I would elaborate on that but wartime correspondence may not be the best place to do so. Perhaps when you're on leave, if you come to London._

(It is important to note that after this line Sherlock paused while writing the letter, and simply stared down at what he'd written. When John was home on leave? He was leaving an opening to continue their relationship, if it could even be called such, in person? Abruptly, the reminder of the kiss John had placed on his cheek came to mind. Yes. That line could stay.)

_As for the rest of my family, my father is long dead, but my mother is alive and meddling. I have a few cousins, but they're not that important for you to know about._

_What is important for you to know is my occupation. It should come as no surprise to you that I work as a detective. Consulting detective, in fact. I invented the job, consequently, I'm the only one in the world. As you are no doubt wondering where the "consulting" part comes in, I'll enlighten you. When the police are out of their depth-- which is always-- they consult me._

_I got your letter about a day and a half ago, the day I arrived at 221B. It arrived two days before that, and my landlady, who has made a point of telling me that she is "just my landlady, not your housekeeper, dear," held onto it for me. Now that I'm settled, you no longer need to add "C/o M. Hudson" to your letters._

_That said, when I got your letter, I was on my way to a case. It's about 0300 right now, but I rarely sleep, and I have time to write back as I finished the case earlier tonight. It was supposed to be a murder-suicide, but there were certain aspects of it that made absolutely no sense, which is why I nipped over. Lestrade didn't call, but I put my number into his phone when he wasn't looking, so next time hopefully he will. Really, Lestrade doesn't have the authority to call me, but Detective Inspector Alistair is an idiot and pawns most of the work onto Lestrade so he might as well. I predict Lestrade will be in his place in under a year. If he doesn't usurp Alistair, then I'll just have to ensure it._

_But back to the case, it was really rather simple once I got to the scene. We had a skinny, reedy male, and a rather heavyset female in far too much makeup. Lestrade had assumed it was a case of sexual assault, in which the man raped the woman and then killed her as well as himself, seeing as they had intercourse beforehand. But when he died, he was as far from her as the alley would allow, there was no sign of semen on her corpse, and he slit his wrists as opposed to getting a gun, which he most likely would have needed in order to force the woman, who had the bodily advantage on him. I drew a few more conclusions, but I'm quite sure they'll go over your head, so I'll conclude by saying it seemed more like he was the one who was assaulted. Further inspection confirmed that her neck was snapped, and that he ran to the end of the alley to die in the dark._

_I put the case as I wrote it to you on my blog, with the extra details included, but I'm not sure how your internet connections are over there. Hopefully this case will be the first of many, especially if Lestrade is promoted. Why do I say "if?" He'll definitely be promoted. Like I said, I'll make sure of it._

_Please tell this Seamus, if he really is as pale and Irish as he sounds, to put on some sunscreen. My father had the stereotypical Irish complexion; I sympathize. And for his sake, I hope he remembered to bring some ink cartridges for his pens._

(Sherlock hesitated before ending the letter, wondering whether or not to add a closing. He finally decided on one for politeness' sake.)

_Despite the delay in my response, I hope you write back. Please include more detail about everything._

_-SH_

* * *

_He signs his letters with his initials only,_ John thinks, his mind still processing through the fact that the attractive man he fortuitously met outside a bar in an unfamiliar city, the man who gave him the last cigarette he swore he would ever have, the man he tipsily kissed on the cheek ten minutes after meeting him: that man just described a _murder-suicide_ stemming from _sexual assault_  via a _letter._

"Letter not what you were expecting, John?" Connor asks, grinning at him in a way that adds innuendo to the entire sentence. Murray snorts, looking over at the letter as though it contains pure, written smut.

John places the letter down on his lap, laughing slightly hysterically. " _Definitely_ not what I was expecting."


	3. a feeling so startling

**G. Lestrade is sitting in a coffeeshop on Montague St. looking frustrated. Clearly, he has not discovered your contact information in his phone.  
-MH**

Sherlock growls, turning back to his test tubes in irritation before realizing what the text message actually said. Bloody Mycroft, he thinks, suddenly torn between adding more copper sulfide to his solution and heading over to the crime scene immediately. The crime scene that Mycroft of all people had to tell him about. 

**Fine.  
-SH**

He places his phone on the table next to him, realizing his mistake when it vibrates and causes a drop more of solution to fall into his test tube than necessary. Sherlock swears violently, continuing to curse when he actually reads the message.

**You're welcome.  
-MH**

Experiment ruined, Sherlock huffs and slips his phone into the pocket of the now-worn coat he wears. It's fine material, as it was a present from Mummy his first Christmas at Uni, but time and experiments have taken their toll on it. There's a Belstaff he has his eye on, but the money he would have used to buy it is going towards his rent. The same goes for a good deal of experiments. If he could just get some more money, he could have it all--cigarettes, chemicals, and that coat.

Alas, not to be, Sherlock thinks to himself, throwing up a hand to hail a cab to Montague Street. It's after he's seated in the cab that he feels his pocket vibrate with another text.

Sherlock sincerely hopes it's not Mycroft and pulls out his phone.

…

It's Mycroft.

**Perhaps you should look for a flatmate, little brother?  
-MH**

**Fuck no.  
-SH**

is what he types back, smirking and slipping his phone back into his pocket. It vibrates disapprovingly a minute later, and Sherlock only smirks wider.

Yes, the rate was exorbitant, but Baker Street is a prime location. Not to mention, Sherlock really, really doesn't want a flatmate. Except…  
"Montague Street," the cabbie announces, scattering the images of orange light on blonde hair, blue eyes, and a kind smile like a breeze on the crunchy November leaves. Sherlock pays the cabbie distractedly, scanning the windows of the coffee shop for the same blonde hair or military posture before remembering he's supposed to be looking for brown-and-silver hair and a tired expression instead. He shakes off the thoughts and narrows his eyes, finding the familiar figure of Lestrade a few tables in, still illuminated by the light pouring in off the street.

Sherlock smiles to himself. A passerby notices the smile, shivers, and walks a little faster past him.

\-----------------------------

_Dear Sherlock,_ (is what John writes to start with. If the man can sign his letters with his initials then John thinks he's earned the right to call him by his first name.)

_Your letter was nothing like I expected. Is it legal to discuss murders in letters like that? I mean, I'm not complaining. That was fascinating and I do hope you keep me in the loop for the next one. Next case, I guess? Yeah, like I said, fascinating. Clearly._

(John drops his face into his hands at the table where they're currently having lunch. Murray laughs, slapping his back. "Trouble finding the right turn of phrase for your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend!" John mutters, "He just wrote me a very odd letter, and even though it's one oif the weirder things I've ever read, I'm having trouble finding the words to say I would really, really like to hear more."

"Then why don't you just tell him that?" Seamus asks, smiling hesitantly at John from the end of the table.

John stares at him for a moment, before turning back to the paper and hastily scribbling. Seamus grins into his orange juice.)

_Have you been able to do this your whole life, or is this a recent, past-few-years kind of thing? I'll stop with the interrogation now, but honestly, I'm curious and I would really like to hear more about everything. EVERYTHING._

_You said in your last letter that you wanted me to give you more details about life here in Afghanistan, so I'll try to elaborate where I can. Naturally, I can't tell you about missions (we haven't been on one yet, so that's out of the question for now), but I can tell you a great deal otherwise, and I think you're clever enough to read between the lines if you have to. For instance, I'm writing this letter with one of Seamus' fountain pens. They're really quite nice, but I have no idea why he brought them and the curiosity is eating me alive. Thus far, he's only used them once, to scribble something down in his notebook. He doesn't seem to be all that protective of them either, which is kind of weird because everyone else is wicked protective of the stuff we've brought with. What's really baffling is the fact that they’re PENS. I bloody HATE letting people borrow my pens, y'know? Half the time I don't get them back and the other half, they’re all bitten up or out of ink when I do. Perhaps you can deduce it._

_Your brother sounds… interesting, for lack of a better word. (The next sentence is crossed out, but with some difficulty, can be read: "I can tell you're annoyed by him, but that's the same way with Harry and I. She's my older sister by 4 years, and I know where you're coming from.") I'd ask you more, but you're right in that questions about the government are better left to in-person chats. Besides, asking more about someone's sibling rather than the person one is corresponding with is rather rude, in my opinion, at least. (And if someone wanted to write letters upon letters about Harry, I'd want to punch them in the face, so there's my not wanting to inflict that on anyone else.)_

_So far, we've been waiting for orders here in Afghanistan. I'm a little worried about what it'll be like here in July, but so far, the weather has been tolerable. We haven't had a sandstorm yet, although we've been warned about them and what precautions to take. Thus far, it seems like our best bets will be to find cover if we see anything that looks remotely like a giant cloud of encroaching sand._

(John taps the borrowed fountain pen against his lips, then puts it down immediately, not wanting to annoy the younger man by biting on the pen Seamus was kind enough to lend John. He looks around the mess hall, wondering what else to write about. A table over, a fight breaks out. Murray laughs, jogging over, and John grins to himself before continuing to write.)

_Our base is currently shared with a company of Americans. They're only borrowing it, but we must tolerate them nonetheless. Since they're relatively new here, they've kept mostly to themselves, aside from one or two brave souls who stopped by at the start of breakfast. I think they realized most of us were quietly preparing to face the day without our tea, and left us alone because of that. We're at normal capacity right now, but they're sleep-deprived and a fight just broke out. (John looks up at this point, wincing as he catches sight of one man giving another a black eye.) I probably ought to finish this letter soon so that I can be available to help if they need me, and also because I don't really have anything else incredibly interesting to say, but I wish I could tell you more about everything here._

(The rest of John's table at this point have gone over in an attempt to break things up. Robertson is restraining one man, Connor and an American are attempting to hold back another, Murray is talking excitedly to one of the Americans, and Seamus is looking on in mixed fascination and horror. John grins and adds one more thing to his letter.)

_I'm quite glad for the correspondence. You're the first unofficial mail the company has gotten, actually, and I look forwards to your next letter.  
Yours, **John Watson**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I had a draft of this chapter on my flash drive after all. Um. Oops.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind comments! I'll try to live up to your expectations.


End file.
